


A Small Courtesy

by blue_pointer



Series: A Study in Gold [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Adventure, Ass-Kicking, Awkward Conversations, Be Careful What You Wish For, Comedy, Flirting, Gen, Gilmore is not Caucasian, Gilmore ships it, Hot Springs & Onsen, Metallic Dragon!Gilmore, Minor Shaun Gilmore/Vax'ildan, Revenge, Teleportation, The Path to Whitestone, Vampire Bites, Vampires, Vax is busted, Whitestone (Critical Role), bound and gagged trope, camp used as a weapon, did Gilmore just seduce Sylas Briarwood, finish him really right here?, flirting shamelessly with vampires, how to scare the straights, mad Bugs Bunny vibes, oh no not the shitty knife, sexual innuendo, sun tree - Freeform, surprise Nazis with guns, the further adventures of Gilmore, there should be a name for a charm duel, vampires are like cats they don't like to be laughed at, when a vampire bites your bae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26351665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_pointer/pseuds/blue_pointer
Summary: In which Gilmore demands an apology.OrWhy it took the Briarwoods so long to show up after Vox Machina arrived in Whitestone, and why it was so easy to defeat them when they finally did.
Relationships: Cassandra de Rolo & Shaun Gilmore, Delilah Briarwood/Sylas Briarwood
Series: A Study in Gold [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906693
Comments: 25
Kudos: 70





	1. Heavens Save Us from Necromancers!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gilmore determines that an ass-kicking is in order and dresses up for the occasion.

Once he’d brought Vax back from his lair, it took Gilmore days to reign in his temper. What the Briarwoods had done, what they had presumed...to place a mark on his sweet-faced boy, drain Vax’ildan’s life force, and attempt to hurl him into oblivion… Trespasses this egregious demanded immediate action. 

But Gilmore knew better than to make the trip to Whitestone in a rage. To do so would be to invite the corruption which fed there to pervert his glorious--some might say divine--nature. And though Gilmore now loathed the Briarwoods from the depths of his heart for attempting to take what was his, had sworn they would pay in blood, he had not lost sight of the big picture. Gilmore’s satisfaction was not worth damnation. 

He did think it prudent to leave before the intrepid band of adventurers did. That was not difficult; Gilmore had a sigil to Westruun, which they did not. That gave him the time he needed to gain control of his temper. It wouldn’t do to dwell on just what the Briarwoods had taken from him. Gilmore had done what he could to repair the damage, and he was content to leave the matter in Vax’s hands now. And for the moment, at least, his darling boy remembered him.The state of his heart, what Vax chose to do with that memory, remained to be seen. Sometimes the decisions mortals made about their destinies were the most interesting bits. And, if things went counter to his desire, Gilmore had developed a thick skin for bearing such pain; some might even have accused him of being a bit of a connoisseur. Yet he couldn’t help but hope for the best. It was Gilmore’s nature. 

In the meanwhile, there was wrongdoing that needed addressing. Fickle and fragile mortal hearts were difficult enough to manage without corruptive outside influences putting their thumbs on the scales. Not that creatures such as the Briarwoods believed in playing fair. Gilmore was prepared for those sorts of tactics. He knew how to deal with their kind. 

It was with a calm resolve that Gilmore set off that morning to demand satisfaction from the Briarwoods. He’d left a note on his desk for Vax’ildan in case he should not return--an unlikely possibility, but Gilmore believed in planning for every eventuality. He’d also left instructions and sufficient coin with Sherri to maintain the shop while he was away and hire another clerk, should she need the help. 

The Alabaster Sierras were cold, so Gilmore took the time to equip himself for the journey, donning a sumptuous fur-lined outer robe with matching hat--quite dashing--which he’d commissioned some time ago for his travels to the colder regions of Exandria. There was a matching muff for his hands, as well, but seeing as that tended to interfere with casting, Gilmore chose to leave it behind, instead tucking his hands inside the fur-trimmed sleeves of his robe when the cold made it necessary. 

He also took extra time with his cosmetics. It wouldn’t do to make new acquaintances looking as though he’d put no effort into his appearance. Gilmore deftly spun his braids into a crown atop his head, fixing them in place with a brilliant jade clasp he’d procured on one of his travels further abroad in Issylra. Donning his fur hat Gilmore examined himself in the mirror one last time before activating the Teleportation spell. 

From Westruun, he chose to fly to Whitestone. Gilmore had never been so pedantic as to walk or ride, and flying would get this unpleasant business over with far more swiftly, which was desirable. He flew by spell, of course. The last thing the Parchwood Timberlands needed was the mass hysteria that would inevitably result from sightings of a fire-breathing dragon approaching the wooded slopes. Though Gilmore’s back and shoulders ached when he went this long without being able to stretch his wings, he had become used to the pain. 

He could smell the corruption of Whitestone from leagues away, and Gilmore adjusted his personal shields accordingly. It wouldn’t do to get caught up in the bad business he’d traveled so far to put an end to. Within the hour, he was flying over dead brown fields with only a weak sprinkling of winter crops, yet another sign that the area had fallen to a blight. 

Gilmore descended to a soft landing just outside the town proper, holding a perfumed sleeve over his nose in an attempt to combat the sheer stench of the place. Poor Percival; no wonder he’d left. The town of Whitestone was anemic, with the undead outnumbering living citizens by at least three to one. Gilmore appreciated the Briarwoods’ thought toward keeping their overhead low. This was certainly not the worst tactic he’d seen utilized to employ cheap labor, but it came with certain significant drawbacks. And odors. 

The living people he passed on the muddy road were nothing short of pathetic. Gilmore thought he really should do something to help them; he was quite tempted. But he had to remind himself that wasn’t why he’d come. And besides, Vox Machina would be arriving in a matter of days. They were not half-bad at leaving townsfolk who managed to survive their adventures better disposed than when they’d first met them. And so Gilmore pressed on, with some little guilt for not doing more, and a rising sense of dis-ease at the strength of the corruption he felt just ahead. 

It tasted like...something which should be familiar to him. A thing of ancient origin that had been twisted by modern means to more perverse ends. Like the black fireflower powder Percival employed in his engineered weapons, only far more sinister than that.

No one stopped him as Gilmore approached the vacant town square, though he did turn every head he passed, as Gilmore was wont to do wherever he went. When he reached the snowy cobblestones, Gilmore stopped to Prestidigitate the mud from his shoes and the hems of his robes, and in doing so took time to get the lay of the land. The undead sun tree at the center of the square seemed to be the apex of a great wickedness that lay beneath. Gilmore was curious as to what arcane devices had been employed in the construction of such evil. The nature of the magic itself was far too easy to guess. _Heavens save us from necromancers!_ Gilmore thought. They were nothing if not predictable, and always at least a bit gauche, to boot. _Always._


	2. A Little Bit of Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gilmore encounters Goran Vedmeyer and Professor Anders, ignores orders, and enjoys himself immensely.

Gilmore stopped at the sun tree to anoint the desecrated seal of Pelor, and lit the small brazier he carried on a chain to smudge the area with a more palatable aroma. The undead within range of the smoke stopped to watch him work, while the living who saw the umber-skinned foreigner now working magic paused briefly before running to their respective homes and places of worship. No doubt some ran back to their masters to report what they’d seen. It wasn’t how Gilmore had meant to make his presence known, but he could hardly bypass such a tragic spot. 

It wasn’t long before Gilmore was approached by a small band of soldiers led by a smooth-faced goliath in livery. He was so surprised by the latter that Gilmore paused in his quiet conversation with the Dawnfather to look more closely at the man. Sadly, the fellow was just like enough to remind him of dear Grog, but nothing more. 

Still, it was a good reminder of why he’d come to Whitestone. It took more mental effort than he’d anticipated to keep the corruption at bay, and Gilmore found himself hyperfocusing on the task at hand. He’d only meant to pay his respects to the sun god before moving on with his business, but Gilmore had become distracted. It was time to move on. 

“Oi! You there!” the goliath’s bass voice rang out across the empty cobbles. “Who gave you permission to do that? I order you to cease at once! Stand down and identify yourself.” To punctuate his words, the living guard in his attendance aimed their crossbows at Gilmore while the undead drew their blades. 

“I’m so glad you asked,” Gilmore replied, continuing his work to clear the air just long enough to pointedly ignore the goliath’s order. “I take great delight in giving _myself_ permission to do most things, you see. I don’t take orders from anyone, though I must confess, you do look quite handsome in your uniform and armor.” He glanced up to cast a flirtatious smile in the goliath’s direction. 

As intended, it gave the goliath pause. He stopped, looking confused. “I said stand down! Foreign magic is not permitted here.” 

“That’s narrow-minded of you,” Gilmore observed. “And besides, my magic has been native to Tal’dorei for decades now. Surely that’s long enough to be considered local.” 

The guard, like their commander, didn’t seem to know what to do with Gilmore. “Should we shoot him, your grace?” one man asked. 

“I’ll handle this,” the goliath said, stepping forward. Gilmore finished his working just in time as the ersatz duke closed the distance between them. 

“Please accept my apologies,” he said, looking up at the group which flanked the large fellow before him. “How rude of me not to offer you a proper greeting.” Gilmore raised his hands, clapping them together just once, sharply. The undead soldiers clattered to the ground, reduced to unanimated piles of bone and sinew once more. 

The living guard stepped away from them in a hurry, looking up at Gilmore accusingly, as though he’d been the one to kill them. “Fear not, friends,” Gilmore smiled warmly. “Pelor sends his blessing. I’m merely passing it on to you who have been hidden from his sight for these last seven years.” 

The guard looked to be deciding then, which man they were more afraid of: their lord and commander, who was twice as tall as any of them, and could pound them to paste on a whim, or the perfumed mage, who was powerful enough to interrupt Lady Briarwood’s spells with sound alone, and spoke as an emissary of a god. For the majority of them, the decision seemed simple enough; they took off for the mansion at a dead run. And those less decisive, seeing their compatriots fleeing for their lives, quickly followed suit. 

“You lot, get back here!” the goliath bellowed after them. “You’ll wish I’d killed you before this is over!” 

Gilmore sighed, sidling up to the large duke with his most inviting body language. “Alone at last,” Gilmore purred. “I was afraid they’d never leave.” 

His flirtation seemed to catch the goliath completely off guard, so much so that he took a step back into a puddle, and stammered for several seconds before regaining his composure. “Oi.” The goliath shook mud out of one boot. “Cut that out, you. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? State your business here.” 

Gilmore smiled, snuffing out the charcoal in his brazier and tucking it away inside one long sleeve as he hid his hands from the cold. “Who, me?” He blinked kohl-smudged eyelashes at the goliath, who looked not a little flustered by the gesture. “I am but a simple merchant, come to seek an audience with your lord and lady.” 

“What, like a traveling salesman?” The duke passed a hand over his face, perhaps in an attempt to wipe off Gilmore’s influence. 

“Well...something like that, yes.” Gilmore beamed. “You’re smart as well as handsome. Is it my birthday?”

After choking on air for a moment, the goliath announced, “You’re under arrest! We don’t like traveling salesmen here.” 

“Might I ask--on whose authority am I under arrest?” Gilmore noted that the duke had made no move to close the last small distance between them, and was still watching Gilmore suspiciously from beyond arm’s reach. 

“On--w--me, that’s who!” the goliath replied, indignant.

“What a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Me.” Gilmore bowed politely.

“W--no, not me!” the goliath gestured in frustration. “I mean ME, Duke Goran Vedmeyer!”

“Well, why didn’t you say so to begin with?” Gilmore asked, innocently. And then pretended to realize something. “Oh, I seeeee.” Gilmore smirked. “You were just teasing me, weren’t you? Naughty! A little bit of flirting to make the midday go by, hmm?” 

“Wh--no! No!” Vedmeyer seemed really flustered now. “You know what? Just go. I’m going to pretend this never happened.” The goliath dropped his hands and turned, beginning to walk away, muttering, “...don’t pay me enough for this shit.” 

“Oh, but it did happen, you handsome thing!” Gilmore called after him. “Don’t leave, we were just getting acquainted!” He smiled, pleased, as the duke made no move to turn back. 

Seeing that he’d done as much as he could do in the town proper, and intending to look more closely at what lay beneath later on, Gilmore set off on what was clearly meant to be the main road toward the castle. Rural Tal’dorei was so charmingly unmaintained, he thought, walking carefully around several potholes.

Gilmore waved jovially at all the villagers he passed, sewing wonder and confusion in his wake until he came at last to stand before the great doors of Whitestone Castle. Foolishly, Lady Briarwood had left the main entrance guarded only by undead. Gilmore released them as quickly as he had the duke’s guard, clearing their bones with a jaunty step as he made his way indoors. 

He shivered a little, pulling his fur lined robe more tightly around him. Why was it so cold here? Had no one in Whitestone heard of fire? Gilmore proceeded down the grand hall in hopes of finding some warmth, encountering only undead--and their accompanying smell--the whole way. Bored and disappointed with this cold welcome, Gilmore amused himself by offering a unique blessing to each undead guard as he set the trapped spirits free. 

“You there!” a pompous old white man in a cape stepped out of a doorway further down the hall to shout. “Stop that at once! Who are you, and what are you doing here?” 

Gilmore felt the man’s bardic influence attempting to sway him and made a great show of ignoring it, continuing to bless the undead guard all the way down the stretch of hall between them. Finally, Gilmore ran out of undead. “I find myself in need of a warm fire,” he told the old man. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to know where I could find one?” 

“So, it’s a fire you seek, is it?” the bard asked, considering himself quite clever. “I believe I can assist you with that.” He sang the last words, and as he did so, cast Fireball. 

Gilmore laughed, catching it in both hands before enthusiastically embracing the flames. “How kind of you, grandfather,” he said. “And to think I had only to ask.” As Gilmore began to separate and juggle the flames with his bare hands, the bard’s whole demeanor changed. In moments, he had fled the scene like the coward he was. “Bards,” Gilmore chuckled to himself, dissipating the flames once the human was gone. 

Moments later, the number of undead filling the hall turned from a trickle to a gush, and Gilmore was no longer amused. When he just began turning them to ash, whomever was sending them finally realized they were wasting their resources, and the flow quickly stopped all together.

 _Honestly,_ Gilmore thought, he’d never been treated so rudely. Weren’t the Briarwoods supposed to be posing as nobility? Gilmore had never paid a visit to persons of high status during which not a single person had approached to bid him welcome upon his arrival. If the Briarwoods hoped to maintain the illusion of high birth, they would have to do better than this. Even a child could learn to mimic basic etiquette and decorum.


	3. How Salacious!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gilmore makes a rogue's acquaintance, with predictable consequences.

Reaching the end of the long hall without further incident, Gilmore found himself faced with three options: a wide stone stair leading down, a wooden staircase leading up, and a small library just off to one side. Gilmore was not yet ready to explore beneath the town, and he spied a cozy settee in the library. Even better, as he made his way toward it, Gilmore could see shadows dancing on the walls, betraying the hearth that lay in the room beyond. Gilmore strode inside and quickly moved to the fire, holding out his hands to the flames, and waiting to feel the heat warm his many rings. The damp chill inside the castle was almost worse than the wintry weather outside. 

Before long, a soundless step drew his attention to the doorway, where a young woman, upon his discovery, quickly hid a blade behind her back.  _ How charming.  _ “Step forward, child,” Gilmore said. “In case no one’s taught you any better, it’s rude to linger in doorways.” 

“Yes,” she said, embarrassed. “You’re quite right. My apologies.” Gilmore didn’t need the light to see by, but asking her to move closer gave him a few extra moments to take in the girl’s features. That nose...and her brow, so like Percival’s, it could be none other. “Which one are you?” Gilmore asked. “I believe Percival mentioned three sisters.”

“Percy?” She looked shocked. “You know Percy? Percy’s alive?” 

Gilmore smiled warmly. “Very much so. And he’ll be very pleased to learn that you are, as well, my dear. Miss…?”

“Cassandra. I’m Cassandra de Rolo. Please...if this is some sort of joke, it’s not funny.”

“I can assure you, I never joke about family matters,” Gilmore said. “But come. Let’s have a seat together. You can tell me the story of how you survived, and I can tell you all about your brother’s mad clockwork inventions. I just love Percy's mind.” He moved to the polished wooden table by the fire, pulling out a chair for Cassandra and waiting, gentlemanly, for her to take it. 

“Mad clockwork? ...no.” Cassandra did not move to join him, her expression now all dismay, though Gilmore continued to wait, patiently. “My mistress...that is, the Lady Briarwood of Whitestone has sent me to inquire of you as to your business here.” 

_ And to place a knife in my back, no doubt,  _ Gilmore thought. 

“And to send her apologies,” Cassandra continued. “She does not accept gentleman guests without Lord Briarwood in attendance.” 

“How salacious of her!” Gilmore beamed to hear something so scandalous. Lady Briarwood thought quite a lot of herself to assume every man who came to the castle arrived for the express purpose of seducing her. “But I don’t understand.” Gilmore feigned concern. “Is dear Sylas away on business?” 

Cassandra winced a little. “No, it’s just that he...is currently indisposed.”

“Ah, of course,” Gilmore smiled, finally taking a seat alone at the table. “He’ll be resting now. Sunlight can just be murder on aging skin. Believe me, I know.” 

Cassandra stared at him. Gilmore smiled kindly back, wondering idly whose side she was on, and why. “If you really are Percy’s friend,” she began, nervously. “I should warn you: speaking so plainly...about Lord Briarwood’s condition. They won’t take kindly to it.”

Gilmore sighed, wishing he had a hot cup of tea to wrap his fingers around. “I’m sorry if I’m being a bit bold. You could say it’s...how I am. I just don’t see what purpose skirting the truth could possibly serve here.” Gilmore cocked his head slightly, still trying to read her allegiance. 

Cassandra shook her head in disbelief. “Who  _ are _ you?” 

“I’m Gilmore,” he told her with a smile. “A simple merchant from Emon, and one of your brother’s biggest fans.” He watched Cassandra’s inner struggle. She didn’t seem to know what to do with this information. But at least she’d been bred to respond as a proper lady.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Gilmore,” she said, making him a small curtsy. “I hope you’re able to return to Emon so that you can carry my regards back to my brother.” 

“It would be my honor,” Gilmore said, though he knew she would be seeing Percival for herself much sooner than that.

Cassandra looked torn. And worried, beginning to wring her hands. “Perhaps it would be best for you if you left right now.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he told her. “Not until I’ve spoken with Lord and Lady Briarwood on a personal matter of some...sensitivity.” He patted the chair beside him, the rings on Gilmore’s fingers clacking gently against the hard surface. “Come. Join me. Waiting is so much more pleasant with good company.” 

Cassandra looked completely exasperated. And for a moment, Gilmore wondered if she would attempt to stab him again. “Well…” She looked around as if she might find the last excuse not to join him suspended at her elbow. “Alright. I suppose. I’ll go get us something to drink.” 

“That sounds lovely.” When she left, Gilmore rose to examine the artwork mounted about the room. Not bad, for Tal’doreian art.

Eventually Cassandra returned with two steaming mugs of something, and Gilmore accepted his gratefully. When they sat down, she kept two chairs between them, either out of an abundance of caution, which Gilmore could not take personally given her present circumstances, or some instruction she had been given by her mistress. 

Clever of the Briarwoods to have kept one of the de Rolo heirs alive, Gilmore thought. The world turned on such legal technicalities. But mostly he was pleased for dear Percival, who would be beside himself to learn that one of his family yet lived. 

Gilmore didn’t pay much attention to the drink Cassandra had brought him. He just knew that it was hot, and warmed pleasantly on the way down. Gilmore realized he should have paid closer attention when his head suddenly began to slump toward the table. “Honestly…” Gilmore murmured, more amused than frightened as he proceeded to lose consciousness. 


	4. In Your Own Macabre Way, You're Really Very Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gilmore laughs at vampires. A lot.

Gilmore awoke sometime later, in a bedroom of distinctly feminine decor, tied firmly to an antique chair. An undead woman possessed of a certain stark beauty stood to his right, holding a glass-bladed dagger that was particularly ill-made to Gilmore’s trained eye. He sincerely hoped she was not planning to stab him with it, for it was of such low quality as to reflect the workmanship of a novice--not even that of an apprentice--and that would simply be too embarrassing. Though it was likely serviceable, Gilmore would not have sold that dagger for a single silver at his shop. It was utter trash. 

Across the room, a dead man with broad shoulders sat at the edge of an enormous canopy bed, large enough to fit at least a harem. His tasteful tuxedo was somewhat out of place in a lady’s boudoir. As he took all of this in, Gilmore also realized his wrists had been bound with magic-cancelling shackles beneath the plain rope that held him fast to the chair. It was all so preposterous, he couldn’t help himself. 

Gilmore threw back his head and roared with laughter. “My dear Briarwoods! If I’d known you were going to be this amusing, I would have come to see you much sooner.” Lord and lady looked at one another as Gilmore filled up his lungs and once more loosed great gusts of laughter, the sound like nothing this room had seen for many years.

“He could simply be mad,” Lord Briarwood posited. 

“No.” Lady Briarwood crossed her arms and tapped her foot, watching Gilmore closely. “It’s nothing that simple.” 

“Stop!” Gilmore gasped, trying to regain his composure. “It’s so difficult to be angry with you when you’re making me laugh this hard!” 

Another look passed between the couple as they waited for him to continue. 

“Please,” Gilmore begged, “If I’m not to have the use of my hands, would one of you mind...applying a handkerchief? Mirth like this inevitably ruins my eye makeup.” Lady Briarwood made no move to grant his request, but Lord Sylas rose from the bed, as though he were considering it. A sharp look from his wife made him think better of it, however. 

“What a shame,” Gilmore sighed. “I’d hoped both of you were better than this.”

“What do you mean?” Lady Briarwood demanded. “Speak plainly, obsequious fool. I don’t see what you find so amusing.” 

“No, I didn’t expect you to,” Gilmore’s laughter began to die down. “The prospect of eternity is far too serious a matter for such mirth.” He swallowed a chuckle, the laughter still in his eyes. “Indeed.” 

Lady Briarwood was done with his observations, bringing the glass blade to his throat. Gilmore did his best not to start laughing again, but she wasn’t making it easy for him. 

“Clearly his aim is to disarm you with ridicule, my dear,” Lord Briarwood said. In a blink, he was by his wife’s side, taking her elbow and gently ushering her away from Gilmore in a very genteel and protective way. Gilmore wanted to like him. But Sylas owed him blood, and it was a debt Gilmore could not forgive. 

“You know, in your own macabre way, you’re really very sweet,” Gilmore said. “If only you’d managed to keep your hands to yourself, none of this would be happening.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lord Briarwood asked with a quirk of one carefully-plucked eyebrow.

“Is that a threat?” Lady Delilah asked calmly--too calmly--from behind her husband, toying with the handle of her trashy knife. She seemed fond of it; perhaps she’d crafted it herself. 

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Sylas told his increasingly stabby wife. “I shall take care of this.” He pulled forward the bench that rested at the foot of the giant bed so that he could sit facing Gilmore, just a few feet away. “Now. It seems you have some quarrel with us. And though my first instinct is to agree with my wife, that we dispatch you and move on, I have yet to ascertain your nature. And that’s quite rare, in my experience. Color me intrigued, Sir.”

 _Finally,_ Gilmore thought. _Someone with at least a semblance of manners._ “Charming,” Gilmore observed. “I can see how your influence has gotten you where you are today, Lord Briarwood.” 

Sylas leaned forward with a predatory smile. He was handsome. And the twinkle in his eye was a powerful spell of influence. There was no way Vax’ildan could have resisted a spell of that magnitude. Thinking of it all again made Gilmore’s blood burn. “Shall I pretend to be ensorceled?” he whispered, as though enthralled. “Or shall we play a different game?”

Lord Briarwood’s smile faded, and the look he cast his wife was one of uncertainty bordering on fear. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “Just kill him, Sylas.” 

“And waste such a potentially valuable sacrifice for our ritual?” Lord Briarwood replied. “Surely not, my dear.” 

“What is it you want?” she demanded, whirling on Gilmore with impatience. “Why have you come here? To humiliate me by dispelling my magic so easily? By flirting shamelessly with my husband in my own bedroom?”

Gilmore couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “No, Lady Briarwood. Those were, I confess, simply syrup on the _qatayef_.” She glared at him expectantly, and Gilmore turned his gaze back to Lord Briarwood. “You damaged something that belongs to me. I’ve come here to graciously accept your apology.” 

“You are in no position to make demands of us,” Delilah snapped, finally stabbing Gilmore in her frustration, the glass blade digging between the ropes to pierce his abdomen.

“No!” Gilmore cried. “Is there no better blade than this in the entire castle?” Getting stabbed with a cheese knife would have been less humiliating. It was depressing having his body penetrated by such shoddy workmanship.

“Something that belongs to you?” Lord Briarwood repeated, ignoring Gilmore’s outcry, his eyes glued to the crimson flow that had begun to trickle between the coils of rope. “Or perhaps…” He looked up into Gilmore’s eyes, clearly distracted. “You mean some **one**?” 

“I knew you’d understand,” Gilmore said, sitting back with a wince, trying to get comfortable around the dagger which Lady Briarwood had been so kind as to leave in his gut.

“Who could it be, I wonder?” Sylas asked, his gaze once more drifting downward, transfixed by the sight of Gilmore’s blood. 

Lady Briarwood seemed a very insecure woman indeed, because she chose that moment to withdraw the knife in a gout of blood and shove it back into Gilmore’s ribs. 

“Our Cassandra tells us you hail from Emon,” Lord Briarwood said, leaning closer to Gilmore.

“You’re joking.” Lady Briarwood snorted with derision. “Surely you didn’t come all this way to scold us for protecting ourselves? _He_ attacked **us**.”

“Is that it?” Sylas looked up at his wife, thinking. “What was the name of that mannerless spy on whom we bestowed our gift that night?”

“Hassan?” Lady Briarwood tried to remember. “Assume? Marquesians have such strange, unpronounceable names.” 

Gilmore inhaled a painful breath, doing his best to ignore her ignorant remark--not to mention the trashy blade that had punctured his liver. “No,” he said, all the mirth gone from his voice. “Not him.” 

“Then who else?” Lady Briarwood asked. She snapped her fingers, realizing. “The boy. That stupid boy who broke into our room and thought he could simply back out. Do you remember, darling?”

“Delicious elf-blooded boy,” Lord Briarwood growled, the sight of Gilmore’s blood drawing out the more feral side of his nature.

Gilmore told himself he would not rise to the bait, but he was finding it increasingly difficult. “He posed no threat to you.” 

“He broke into our room!” Delilah repeated, feigning outrage. “Offered to bed us both!”

“Well, who could blame him for that?” Gilmore asked with a lopsided smile, making a mental note to speak with Vax a little further about the incident, for this was one detail he’d left out. “All the same, still not a threat.”

Gilmore’s blood had stained the ropes by now. It seemed too much for Sylas to ignore. “What are you?” he asked, suddenly mere inches from Gilmore’s face, nostrils flaring as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of Gilmore’s blood. 

“That’s kind of rude, don’t you think?” Gilmore asked, watching the vampire fall gradually under his sway. “I’ve been more than kind to both of you, considering what you did.” As though Sylas wasn’t breathing down his neck, Gilmore looked patiently up at Lady Briarwood. “I’m still waiting for my apology.” 

“Then you’ll be waiting a very long time,” she replied coldly, withdrawing the awful glass knife once more. “Sylas. Finish him.” She took a step back, expectantly.

“What, right here?” Gilmore quipped. “In your own bedroom?” He chuckled, smirking. “I hadn’t realized this was that sort of party.”

“I want him,” Sylas breathed, his sharp nails impatiently slicing away the bloodstained rope that had been holding Gilmore’s wounds together. “He’s somewhat amusing. Can’t we keep him a little longer, my dear?”

There was a pause, and when Gilmore glanced back at her, Lady Briarwood did not look happy. “You know I can deny you nothing.” Her voice was cold as ice. “Do as you wish. If there is enough left of him, I’ll reanimate him for you. If not, we’ll save the remains for the next ritual.” And with that, she turned and bustled out of the room, almost perturbed enough to make Gilmore feel vindicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Qatayef](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qatayef)


	5. For Your Own Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gilmore lays out his demands to the Briarwoods and briefly makes Ripley's acquaintance.

With the soft click of the latch behind her, Sylas pounced, tackling Gilmore to the floor, the chair shattering under the weight of the blow. “I’m curious,” Sylas asked, crouched on top of Gilmore in a less than optimal manner. “If we had offered you the apology you claim to seek, then what? Would that have given you satisfaction?” 

“I don’t know,” Gilmore spoke softly, doing his best to ignore the blood coursing out of his body. “I’m notoriously difficult to satisfy.” 

“Are you indeed?” Sylas chuckled, pressing his fingers into the first stab wound until Gilmore winced. “And you do not think me capable of satisfying you?” He withdrew blood-covered fingers and sniffed them in a way Gilmore could only have described as vulgar. 

“Not in the least,” Gilmore replied, deadpan. 

Sylas’ cold grip left bruises on Gilmore’s neck, his hand sliding up to raise Gilmore’s chin, exposing more of his throat. “I think the more relevant question is, could _you_ satisfy **me**?” 

“Trust me, you couldn’t possibly handle me,” Gilmore drawled. “For your own safety, I suggest you don’t even consider trying.” The words sounded very brave, considering he could feel the vampire’s cold breath on his neck. 

“You reek of power,” Sylas growled, his genteel facade unraveling to reveal a more bestial nature. “And I want it.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Gilmore warned him. 

“Your will may be too strong for me to sway you to our cause,” Lord Briarwood continued. “But you _will_ lend us your power one way or another.” And with that, Sylas sank his teeth into Gilmore’s throat.

It was a bit much. Gilmore waited, bleeding freely onto Lord Briarwood’s once-pristine tuxedo as Sylas crouched on top of him. But he didn’t have to wait long.

“It burns!" the vampire cried, reeling back from Gilmore as deep fissures began to appear across his skin. 

“I did warn you,” Gilmore said. 

Sylas fell, writhing, to the floor, screaming in pain as Gilmore’s blood began to burn him from the inside-out. The vampire howled in agony, his tortured cries bringing his wife charging to his aid, but too late. As Delilah burst into the room, she could do nothing but watch her husband’s body shatter like fine porcelain, the cracks in his skin shining like rays of sunlight from within. 

“What have you done?” she screamed. Whirling on Gilmore in her rage, she cast Finger of Death.

Having melted his shackles off in the commotion, Gilmore caught her spell easily, dissipating it with Counterspell. “All you had to do was apologize,” he said softly. “Was that small courtesy really too much to ask?” 

Lady Briarwood shrieked, then, like the unholy thing she was, casting Disintegrate on him. Gilmore calmly held up the ring on his index finger, reflecting the spell back at her. 

Watching Delilah’s ashes scatter through the hovering mist of her husband onto the floor, Gilmore sighed. “Apparently no one has manners anymore.” He drank a custom potion before standing up and dusting himself off. With a look of annoyance, Gilmore straightened his robes. 

“Now, as I happen to know both of you can still hear me, I’m issuing you the following warning: You are, neither of you, ever to harm my Vax again.” Gilmore Prestidigitated the blood from his robes, flinging the cast-off at Sylas to punctuate his threat. The mist popped and hissed around the fiery droplets. “This could have been so much worse for you,” Gilmore said. “I hope now we understand one another.”

He couldn’t be certain, but Gilmore thought he detected some motion of agreement from the mist as it cautiously crept up the chimney. 

Before he left, Gilmore wandered down into the ancient tunnels below Whitestone. A particularly acrid odor led him to a series of laboratories he thought Percy would likely find fascinating. But Gilmore was not Percy. The vats of acid, beakers, tubes, and knicknacks didn’t do much for Gilmore. He would have left, but there was a woman pointing a--what did Percival call his powder weapons?--a gun at him. 

“You’re the talk of the town,” she told Gilmore. “I’d hoped to finish cleaning out my supplies before you got down here.” The bespectacled woman didn’t move a muscle. Was she that focused or perhaps frightened of him?

“By all means,” Gilmore gestured for her to continue packing up. “Don’t mind me; I just came to do a little exploring.” 

A distrustful, skittish thing, she shot him. “That _hurt_ ,” Gilmore gasped, looking down at the fresh bloom of blood staining his temporarily-pristine robes. He’d always been vaguely curious just how much damage Percival’s weapons did, but he hadn’t intended to find out like this. 

“That’s the point,” the unpleasant woman said, using her other wrist--which was missing a hand, Gilmore noticed--to pull back the hammer a second time. Not having enjoyed being shot once, Gilmore flung her into the ceiling with Telekinesis, knocking her unconscious before she could do it again.

After a few minutes, Gilmore’s body rejected the iron of the bullet, and it fell to the floor. He drank another potion to mend some of the impressive amount of damage the projectile had caused. Gilmore supposed such an injury would likely burn its target, as well, though he seldom noticed such things. 

Looking at the prone form of the violent human, Gilmore tried to think what he should do with her. Unlike the Briarwoods, she clearly had no sense of honor, so no verbal agreement would do. And yet, Disintegrating her seemed a bit harsh. Still, she was far too dangerous to leave running around when Vox Machina arrived. Were she to shoot Vax, it would do far more than cause him pain. 

Gilmore placed her dropped weapon back onto one of the metal tables in the laboratory and wandered through the lower level, the woman’s unconscious body bobbing along behind him like a deflated balloon. When he located the dungeon, Gilmore was satisfied to simply lock her inside one of the empty cells. She would find her way out eventually. Or not. 

Then he went looking for the Arcane working he’d sensed earlier, the only thing that had interested him below the city. Finding the ancient tunnels below Whitestone and the corrupted ziggurat, Gilmore noted the mathematics of the structure was several crucial degrees off. As was their Iounan script. He spent some time correcting the grammar of their hieroglyphs before Teleporting back to Westruun. 

As he soaked in the hot spring that night, Gilmore considered all that had transpired in Whitestone, asking himself if any of it had truly made him feel better. No, he decided at last. None of the revenge he’d taken on the Briarwoods could change what they’d done to Vax’ildan. 

All the same, it was somewhat satisfying to watch those who’d harmed the one you love explode. Such violence was nothing Gilmore dared indulge often, for there was always the risk it would become addictive. Still, he felt no shame at the way he’d behaved today. Gilmore had, after all, given the Briarwoods every chance to do the right thing. They’d simply chosen poorly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I'm saying is, in spite of being charmed and power word stunned in the second Briarwood encounter, Vax took 0 damage from the Briarwoods.

**Author's Note:**

> All kudos to my bff actualjohnwatson, for being my beta.


End file.
